


Friends And Truths

by Hekate1308



Series: Brandy And Silence [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had never had a friend before, therefore he had never had to lie to a friend before. Continuation of "Two Guilty Men" and "Brandy and Silence". DI Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes friendship, Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends And Truths

Mycroft Holmes had never really had a friend.

He had had a lot of acquaintances and allies, though, and he had learned early in life that these could be far more valuable than friends. And affection for others had never been encouraged in his family anyway. His father had been working most of the time (until he left them when Sherlock was seven and Mycroft fourteen years old) and he couldn't even remember a single hug he'd got from his mother.

This had never bothered him; and with him slowly working his way to the position he currently occupied, and having to look after his little brother, he wouldn't have had much time to think about it anyway. His only regret was that Sherlock wasn't good at following the rules of social etiquette.

He would never tell anyone, of course, but he didn't just pull the strings in the background, manipulated and watched over people because someone had to do it, but because he enjoyed it. He had never felt isolated or lonely.

Until Sherlock jumped from a building. Until he lost the one human being he truly felt connected to and he realized that he had become a shadow, without a real life of his own.

He still worked, naturally; after all, that was all he had now. Even if he had wanted to talk about his brother's death (which he didn't) there wasn't anyone to talk to, except maybe Anthea, and he was rather sure his PA still blamed herself for not watching over Sherlock. So he didn't talk to her, or anyone else.

He hadn't even spoken to anyone at the funeral; he didn't care much for people giving their condolences. Most of them didn't mean it.

He still kept an eye on Sherlock's friends; John was doing as badly as he'd expected he would – sometimes, he thought about arranging a meeting, but knowing what the doctor thought about him, he decided against it every time.  
He saw Mrs. Hudson from time to time, though; there was something about the way she prattled on about Sherlock, still calling him "her boy" while stuffing him with biscuits and tea (there went another diet, but there was no one to tell him he was gaining weight) that made him feel less inhuman. Maybe because she didn't think he didn't grieve.

He did. He just didn't believe in public displays of his feelings. There was no need to cry or to wear black.

Neither was there any point in feeling guilty. What was done was done. Nothing would bring Sherlock back. Of course he wished that he hadn't told Moriarty everything he needed to know – but it couldn't be helped now.

So he simply carried on like he always had.

And then DI Lestrade offered him his condolences out of the blue.

He had known, of course, that the DI wasn't taking Sherlock's death well and that he blamed himself to some extent for his brother's suicide because he had believed Donavan and Anderson. It was ridiculous, of course; Moriarty would have found a way to discredit Sherlock, Donavan and Anderson would have gone to the Chief Superintendent without him. But that didn't make Lestrade feel any better, Mycroft supposed. He had known the DI for years, after all; he had arranged a meeting with him soon after Lestrade had told Sherlock that he could help him solve crimes (Sherlock had scoffed at the "help" naturally) as long as he got clean. Mycroft had been intrigued; there weren't many policemen who would offer a drug addict they had arrested just a week before for trespassing on a crime scene a job, and one that would probably make his brother quit the drugs.

The DI hadn't shown any fear; rather, he had been annoyed and demanded to know what was going on. As soon as Mycroft had explained who he was, the look in Lestrade's eyes had changed, and Mycroft had suddenly been aware that, while the DI understood that it was difficult to keep an addict from drugs, he was being judged for the first time since Mummy's death. Then, apparently, Lestrade had decided that he must care for his brother or he wouldn't have "kidnapped" him, and treated him politely while not giving anything away. Not that he needed too; Mycroft had already known everything.

Still, he had been relieved that his brother was in good hands – Lestrade had certainly proved this often enough, always answering Sherlock's texts, looking after him on danger nights, defending him against detectives like Donavan. So, really, there was absolutely no reason for the DI to blame himself, and for a moment, Mycroft had actually considered telling him so, but then decided that it would probably have no effect. They weren't friends, they were barely acquainted.

And then the DI showed up at the Diogenes Club and offered his condolences. Mycroft had been convinced that he would never see him again (at least in person); no one ever really sought his presence.

But Lestrade had proven him wrong. He came again and again, simply sipping his brandy in silence and keeping him company. And Mycroft, although he tried not to, was starting to look forward to his visits – he always knew, through the surveillance reports he still got, when the DI had had a hard day and was likely to come by.

He had never had someone meet him for no other reason than they wanted to see him; even if Lestrade only did it to appease his bad conscience – which he didn't doubt – it was nice to have some company now and then. So he started talking after about two months of brandy and silence.

And then he suddenly gave in to the impulse not to wait at the Diogenes Club, but to have the DI brought to his house. They talked, and he suddenly had to call Lestrade "Greg" and found it surprisingly easy.

When he left the house the next morning – Greg asleep in a guest bedroom after a little too much brandy – he gave instructions that his car should be brought over from Scotland Yard.

And realized, suddenly, that he'd made a friend for the first time in his life.

Somehow, the DI had wormed his way into his life, just like he'd earned Sherlock to respect and trust him all those years ago. And apparently he hadn't just come to the Diogenes Club all these months ago because of a bad conscience and his loyalty to Sherlock, but he'd really wanted to keep him company.

So be it, then. At least there was one human being in the world who would care if something happened to him. Or notice for another reason than he didn't show up at his office.

After the first time he came to his house, Greg started texting him, asking him whether he'd be at the Diogenes Club or at his mansion, and if he had time in the evening. Considering both of their jobs, it was surprising how many evenings they managed to spent together, drinking brandy and talking. And sometimes even laughing (although he'd never admit it; he had convinced the world long ago that Mycroft Holmes didn't have a sense of humour).

They spoke about Greg's work (although Mycroft never offered advise; they both felt it would be wrong), or Mycroft's (as much as they could talk about it anyway). Now and then, they talked about their private lives. Greg was obviously curious about the childhood that could have produced someone like Sherlock and Mycroft, and while the British Government tried not to reveal anything, sometimes certain half-sentences would slip out, mostly in the middle of the night, when the shadows were slowly closing in around them. Greg simply nodded, once more displaying an acceptance that Mycroft had never known before.

They didn't talk about Sherlock because there was no need to; they talked about John and Mrs. Hudson, though, and Mycroft often wished that Greg could tell him that the doctor was doing better, despite what his surveillance team told him. But there was nothing they could do. There was nothing anybody could do. Only time could help – time and someone who was beyond helping anyone.

And so this strange friendship went on. On the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, knowing that they had each gone to the cemetery, Greg simply raised his glass and said, "To Sherlock". Mycroft toasted him back and wondered what his brother would say if he could see them. Then he chased the thought away; there was no comfort in conjecture.

There was comfort in the thought that he still had one constant in his life, though.

Naturally, it couldn't stay that way; the Holmes' brother's lives had never been ordinary. And so, a few days after the first anniversary of Sherlock's de- jump, his brother texted him.

Other people would probably have believed it to be a sick joke, but Mycroft knew better, because the message – a simple _I need all you have on Michael Rowlins_ – was sent to the one phone only two people knew the number of, Sherlock and Anthea. And his PA would never give his number to anyone, he could be absolutely certain of that.

So he tried not to cry from joy and relief and succeeded, naturally, even if his eyes were a little moist, and sent the information to the phone. Just the information and nothing else.

He spent the next three days figuring out how Sherlock had faked his death, and wondering how much longer it would take him to get rid of Moriarty's web – Michael Rowlins had been a part of it, and really, it was the only explanation for Sherlock's disappearance – when a problem he wouldn't have foreseen became apparent.

He had never had a friend before, which meant he had never had to lie to a friend before.

But now he had one. A friend who was still grieving for a man who was very much alive. And Mycroft couldn't tell him that he was.

He wouldn't have thought that this would make him uneasy, but it did. There were moments, during their long conversations, when the truth sat on the tip of his tongue; when Greg mentioned a case in passing and added "Sherlock would have liked it"; when the DI told him that he didn't think John was getting any better; when he announced that, once again, a case that Sherlock had solved had been re-investigated and the consulting detective had once again been proven right. And every single time, there would be regret and guilt in Greg's eyes, and Mycroft knew that one sentence would be enough to make them disappear. But he couldn't. Sherlock was out there, hunting down Moriarty's web, occasionally asking for information, and the DI was too fond of his brother – he couldn't be sure that Greg wouldn't betray his secret.

So he was silent, for two more years in which he and Greg became better and better friends and the guilt – though now not the guilt for his brother's death – was gnawing at him.

Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion, didn't give him a warning when he returned; he simply showed up at John's new flat. Naturally, Mycroft was informed of the development (the doctor punched his brother in the face, but, when Sherlock turned around to go, convinced that John didn't want him around anymore, he hugged him and told him to "Never leave him again" – something Mycroft could easily have predicted).

He could have called his brother, but he knew Sherlock well enough to know that he probably wouldn't answer, so he called Greg instead and said, as soon as the DI picked up, "Sherlock is alive. He just arrived at John's flat".

Greg took a deep breath but surprised Mycroft yet again because he needed less than a minute to answer, "You knew".

It wasn't a question. "For the last two years, yes" Mycroft replied.

Unexpectedly, the DI laughed. "Really, I should have known. You Holmes can't even stay dead."

But Mycroft heard the relief and the joy he had experienced when Sherlock texted him in his friend's voice and smiled.

"Listen" Greg added, "I'm going to take the rest of the day off. There's nothing to do anyway. You better have brandy at your house".

He obviously expected Mycroft to drive home, and strangely, the older Holmes found he had nothing against it.

"When is there none?" he asked, earning another chuckle.

"Oh" Greg said, "and that doesn't mean I'm not mad at you".

Mycroft was about to apologize when he added, "But I guess that can't be helped when you're friends with a Holmes, so we're good" and hung up.

Mycroft put his phone in his pocket, stood up and strolled out of his office, telling his driver to take him home immediately.

Because sometimes all you needed was to spend an afternoon with a friend.


End file.
